Many Worlds Interpreted: With and apostrophe and without

What's the point of interpreting the other worlds if in the other worlds, they've decided this and that don't even exist? In those other worlds, they've decided, they don't give a fuck? What if Schrödinger is a shoemaker in the other world? Making shoes. And his cat. Sleeping. In the corner. Dreaming of mice and catnip. Not worrying about its papa writing him into some cockamamie theory he has. And, all is safe and reasonable with the world.
-the end-

The Many World's Interpretation continues...and continues....and continues....

In the one universe I think I'm in, I'm having a cigarette. It's been a long day filled with fruitless nothings. I've gone to work. I've clocked in at 9 and have clocked out by 5. I've driven home from work. I took a nap wearied by nothing to be really weary about. I wake up. A friend calls. We enjoy a comfortable and comforting evening together. She takes me home. I'm enjoying to rain. It washes away all the secular sins of the world. I'm going to bed. The days seem endless, monotonous and infinite.

In the other universe, my day is starting. I have a pen. I have paper. I write and occasionally drift off into a doodle. There's a tremendously chaotic and wonderful world before me and I have only this bare moment in time to collect my thoughts before I get lost in them. The days seem only infinite.

I don't know what goes on in the other world. Theoretically it's impossible for us to interact. It would be dangerous for us to interact. In my world, you forever ask someone how they are doing. In theory, this would only be self-destructive. I let her go writing in peace. She has a busy day ahead of her.

-the end-

My submission to the Many Worlds Interpretation - Khanh's Cat.

In one world, the cat is dead. In another world, the cat's totally alive...having a great time...writing letters home to ma about what a great time it's having...creating time machines that defy the time space wave function continuum...ending up in the dead cat's universe on a particularly wild night. It finds the dead cat. Slaps the dead cat in the face and says, "When are you going to wake up? Don't you realize you're nothing but a part of a very flawed theory?!" There's no response. Drunk and disappointed, the live cat stumbles back into his time machine navigating his way back home. Except, there's no home anymore. There's a steal cage and some nutty Austrian physicist named Erwin Schrödinger standing there going, "I've got an idea."

Moral of Interpretation: Don't fuck with a dead cat.

-The End-

Nothing like waking up...

...and finding out you are still you. It'll take me a few more hours to determine whether or not this is a good thing or a bad thing.

In the meantime, I'll take it as a good thing because the other option, not waking up at all, pretty much sucks when you're least expecting it.

-the end-

Attempt #6780789

The words used to come out easier. But lately, all I've done is write for hours only to eventually find myself repeating what I normally do...paralyze my pinkie finger on the backspace button deleting my thoughts and words one letter at a time. I've forgotten what the point was and resolve that it wasn't all that important to begin with.

I figure I needed to really attempt writing it all out again, pointless or not, because how I've been handling it is getting me nowhere.

I'm in a relationship. It was working on it. I've reached the point of realizing I've put in too many overtime hours without any benefit. I need to move, and I'm struggling with it. I question what it is I'm struggling with...is there something telling me I've been going about it the wrong way or am I hitting that age where I'll take what I've got because I've ruined everything else and loneliness is my only other option.

I hate my job. I don't really. It's just not what I want to do. What I want to do gives me a lot more freedom but a lot less pay. Can I live off freedom? Ideally, I could, but freedom doesn't pay an overdue electric bill. It doesn't put food in my stomach. I mine as well look for a job raising magical ponies. Both would be equally non-realistic.

I would like to find the body wash that erases the mysterious pheromone attracting all the perverts to me as of late. You think this is me speaking from arrogance, but I've had more than one too many incidents of attracting the wrong crowd. Something is raising red flags around me saying, "Yes. Feel free to talk to me, react to me, attempt to molest me. I don't mind." I do mind. What can I do to give off THAT vibe.

Self actualization.
Esteem
Love/Belonging
Safety
Physiological

I've fallen of Maslow's Pyramid. I've allowed myself to be satisfied at the bottom of his triangle, and barely so. I'm barely a trapezoid.

-the end-

I kind of miss my best friend.

I kind of wish things weren't so awkward. A boy and a girl can be friends without it being complicated. But sometimes, it gets complicated just the same. You wait it out. You talk again and you punch each other in the shoulder. It's not time to punch him in the shoulder just yet. Waiting it out. I'll punch him eventually.

I remember when...

Is it accurate that I feel like using the term unseasonably cold for the weather here in Texas? It's terribly cold outside. Frankly, it's cold inside. My bones are feeling chilly.

I broke out a jacket I haven't worn in years. Perhaps the feel of cow leather and nostalgia would warm me. It does it's best to block out winter. Not so bad, but not so great either.

My hands, they go unprotected. I'm knitting them into armpits trying to catch whatever bit of warmth I can manage. It's the cold that knocks out my sense of reason and causes me to forget that jackets have pockets. Into them, my hands finally go.

A scrap of paper. No, it feels oddly different than the normal detritus that I keep there. Usually a collection of gas station receipts for cigarettes snuck while my parents weren't looking. A gum wrapper for the spearmint I gnawed on to cover it up. A ticker tape jumble of a careless youth.

No, this certainly felt different. Even with my blind and numb hands, I could feel the sharp creases of intentionally folded piece of paper.

Curiosity piques me and I dig the scrap out of the pocket. Opening the first fold I read an apology.

It's the apology of a shy young man I once knew very fondly. He's tired and the first thing he decided to do that morning was write this very letter to me. He's saying sorry about how clumsy he appeared after our first date and how even clumsier this letter appears. But, he doesn't apologize for what he really wants to tell me...that he likes me and that he'd really like to get to know me.

I'm a little giddy at finding this letter. A bit warmed even. It's the last time I remembered someone going out of there way to tell me they cared for me. That doesn't happen as often these days. But it happened once. I remember.